Between the Lines
by Vindalootoo
Summary: A series of oneshots inspired by anime or manga moments. Part 5: Hiro's quit BadLuck and Ayaka's come to convince him to return. Why'd he really return to Shuuichi?
1. It's Only Lyrics

**Disclaimer: **This is a work of fanfiction based on Maki Murakami's exquisite story "Gravitation." I take no profit other than enjoyment.

**A/N:** Between the Lines will be a series of one-shots inspired by moments in the anime, the OVA, or the manga.

Part one: It's Only Lyrics: For those who haven't read it or have only seen the various anime, in the manga, the equivalent of the OVA's Tokyo Bay Music Festival is a challenge between Shu and Ryu to write/record ten songs in five weeks. It's really just one more pressure test for Shu...almost a graduation test, but he doesn't know that. He gets terrible writer's block and (as indicated here) everybody, including Yuki tries to bail him out. The aftermath is pretty glossed over and confused with other issues. This is my take on what's going through his—and Yuki's—head.

✴✴✴ ✴✴✴ ✴✴✴  
**Between the Lines:  
****It's Only Lyrics  
**by Vindaloo  
✴✴✴ ✴✴✴

_Klick!_

Light flooded the world.

_Snick!_

Kami-sama, he knew that sound. Intimately.

Shuuichi swallowed hard and winced at the glare, blinking up the long barrel of the .44 magnum to the hazy, blond-headed figure at the hand-cannon's far end.

"One hour, Shindou, and it's showtime."

Reality struck, hard and painfully. One hour. One hour before Nittle Grasper's first live performance in years. One hour before the contest was over. One hour before . . .

Before his career spiraled down in flames.

Before he lost to Ryuichi yet again.

"But—"

A hand grasped his collar and jerked his head up out the pillow of crossed arms and hauled him out of the chair.

"_But—"_

"No time, kid. Grab the lyrics and let's go!"

K's strong fingers bit into his upper arm. _"But—!"_

Not that his protests did any good. He grabbed his drawing tablet as K dragged him bodily out the door and thrust him into the NG limo, bed-head, baggy shorts, crossed-eyes and all.

_Yuki!_ "Wait, K, I've got to tell Yuki—"

"Screw him!" K yelled at the driver to get a move on and reached across Shuuichi's body to buckle his seatbelt.

_I'd love to, _Shuuichi thought wildly. Who cared if Yuki had gone crazy on him? Who cared if Yuki insisted on turning him into the ghost-of-love-gone-sour. Anything was better than having to walk through the door of the studio and admit to those he loved most in the world (except for Yuki, of course—when he didn't hate him—like now) that he'd failed this final, most important challenge.

The next half-hour was a blur of sensations, a blur dominated by terror with Fugisaki Suguru's music as a cacophonous accompaniment. Bad Luck's keyboardist was a musical prodigy, so why didn't the music make sense?

He kept opening his tablet to the page of crazed notes, trying to make sense of those confused impressions, only to have another insane factor thrown into the mix. He remembered costumes; Seguchi; protesting he didn't have the lyrics—

"_Here!"_ Someone—Suguru—thrust papers at him.

"Lyrics—such as they are." The kid's eyes were narrow with fury.

"If you had these—" K's voice, from some corner beyond his sight, "Why didn't you say something before?"

"Because I was hoping we'd forget this ridiculous plan," Suguru snapped, "but if we're going to die, let's do it right. I _won't_ lose my life over humming!"

He stared at the words, and in one instant, heard them echoing the rhythms of the no-longer cacophonous music—

And in the next: silence, the words vanishing within the crumpled folds of his fist.

"No!" He thrust the paper back at Fujisaki. "If I'm in charge of the lyrics, then I and I alone will write them! It's _me_ at the mic and I'll damnwell hum if I want to!" He closed his eyes and even as he protested, the sounds of the music at last began to sort themselves within his gut. Words began to take shape—_his_ words, _his_ feelings and no one else's. "I'll show the world I love this band more than anything and that _I don't need Yuki Eiri!"_

"Except you _do_ need him . . ."

Hiro's quiet voice was a cold shower on the creative fire blossoming in his soul.

The music went cacophonous all over again. He cried out in frustration—

As the introduction for Nittle Grasper flared out over the PA system.

"They're beginning early!" Someone screamed—maybe it was him—and the next thing he knew, he was flying headfirst out onto the stage, sliding to a stop at Sakuma Ryuichi's expensively booted feet.

His heart stopped. Ryu was staring down at him. The music coming over the speakers wasn't Nittle Grasper's, it was the cacophony that was Bad Luck's final entry in the singles competition.

Ten singles in five weeks. Who the hell tried to create ten singles in five weeks? What had he and Ryu been thinking, that day in the men's room?

He scrambled to his feet, staring out across the clamoring fans. Energy filled the room. All the hatred, fear and uncertainty that had flooded his life for five weeks vanished in an instant as the love of the fans filled him. They didn't care. None of them cared. They opened their arms and screamed—for him, for Ryu . . . did they really care? He'd been one of them once. Now . . . .

What _was_ he now?

✴✴✴

Shuuichi stood alone in the spotlight, arms hanging at his sides. Ryuichi had stepped back, into the shadows. Ryuichi knew the kid had no lyrics, knew that once again fate and NG had thrust the naïve brat into a damned impossible situation, and his eyes, narrowed and canny, were locked on Shu. Just . . . watching. Waiting . . . as the music which had become so familiar to Yuki Eiri rang through the air and Hiroshi's dancing fingers filled the wordless void with fluid guitar riffs.

A ballad, beautiful and magical. He'd had no trouble finding words, so easily had he imagined Shuuichi's voice following those paths.

Eiri's chest tightened in sympathy for his stubborn little lover, and he glared across that body-filled auditorium, _willing_ the miniature moron to see him—

And somehow, impossibly, those huge, panic-stricken eyes found him. He stifled a smile, kept that attention with an unblinking, intense stare, and began signaling, telling the idiot as plain as words to look into that damned tablet—providing, of course, he hadn't lost the page Eiri had slipped into it only hours before.

Confusion, frustration—hope as he found the printout—god, Eiri wondered whether every other person in that room could read that face the way he could.

A hushed, expectant silence filled the room. Every individual there knew the story of the battle of the bands—hell, it had been publicized loudly enough—and all waited breathlessly for the final act.

Relief, gratitude—and suddenly, it all vanished into a face he barely recognized as Shu. The features were there, the brilliant eyes, the shining hair...but the thoughts, the emotions behind those features were a complete and utter mystery. Those eyes that haunted his every thought lifted, met his again, blinked, and slid around to the shadows where Fujisaki caressed his keyboard, and further to the long-haired Hiro. Without so much as a glance from those glistening eyes, the small hands whose touch he adored slipped his gift back into the tablet, then fell again to his sides, to hang limp beside the baggy shorts. The tablet slipped free to lie in a crumpled heap on the stage.

Shuuichi's eyes closed, one hand lifted to...caress the mic.

Eiri swallowed hard, and closed his own eyes on the sight, knowing that caress...intimately. Behind the darkness, Shuuichi's voice joined the guitar's, only to rise, gently as a butterfly's wings, and drift across the audience to caress Eiri's ears, his body—his heart, as that small hand caressed the mic. Just as he'd imagined, the words...

Except... It wasn't his lyrics filling the room. It wasn't Shuuichi's. Or anyone else's, for that matter.

Shuuichi was humming.

Nothing but the synthesizer, his best friend's guitar, and that beautiful, haunting voice.

Eiri opened his eyes and looked out across the room, saw closed eyes and swaying heads throughout. Like him, he'd wager every mind, every heart in the room was filled with its own private fantasy.

Shuuichi had won. He'd proven his point. He didn't need anyone's help.

And Yuki Eiri's heart sank. He bowed his head and left the auditorium.

✴✴✴

The final note from the synthesizer drifted gently into history.

Silence.

Shuuichi swallowed hard, and hesitantly opened his eyes, squinting into the bright lights, wondering if he was going to be booed off the—

A spontaneous roar of approval rose from the audience.

They loved it. He'd done nothing but hum and they'd loved it.

He grinned as the adrenaline surged anew, raised his mic in a triumphant salute and screamed into the cacophony: "Bad Luck rules!"

The noise surged to a new high.

But the adrenaline rush was short-lived. In the end, there was only one opinion that truly mattered.

He scanned the room seeking that blond head he so desperately needed to see, but the spot beside the doorway was empty.

Yuki was gone.

The mic hand dropped, numb, as the rest of him was chilled and weary.

"Well." Ryuichi's silky voice floated from the speakers, and suddenly Ryu was there, beside him, eyeing him with the mesmerizing, sideways gaze of the stage-Ryuichi. "It appears you've won, Shu-kun."

Won? He'd done nothing but hum, when he could have sung those beautiful lyrics, lyrics burned forever into his heart.

Painfully permanent.

He blinked, breathed deeply and said, in a low, to Ryu-only voice: "You know better."

"On the contrary." That sultry voice caressed his fears and he looked up to meet the mentor-Ryu eyes. Before he had time to wonder: "Sing with me?"

"Huh?"

"Sing my final song with me? You heard it yesterday, right?"

His eyes returned to the door on the far side of which Yuki was even now escaping.

"So, Shuuichi...will you shine with me?"

He heaved a sigh of resignation...and grinned at his idol.

"I'd be honored, Sakuma-sensei."

"Ryu, Shu-kun. Just...Ryu." And with a graceful flick of his fingers, he signaled Touma and Noriko, his fellow Nittle Graspers, to start playing.

✴✴✴

The two voices blended in heart-wrenching purity, the harmony so perfect, it sent chills down Eiri's spine. Two certifiable nutcases with voices that would put any heavenly choir to shame.

If he closed his eyes, he could see them, blissed out in the fantasy of their own conjuring. Two of a kind...except Shuuichi would never, ever have Ryu's cunning. Shuuichi could never do to anyone...what Ryu had done to him, for all Shuuichi didn't know it yet. Ryu had conceived the challenge, had set Shu up, then done everything within his substantial power to garner the fans against Shuuichi, to make him fail—

If that was possible.

It was both Shu's strength and his weakness, that caring nature of his. Ryu had an admirable cut-throat side that could temper a gift like Shuuichi's. Shuuichi, in Ryu's place, would take the long route, nurturing and encouraging.

Ryu would scare the living piss out of the very person he most wanted to succeed.

They'd both succeed, in the long run, but Shu's run would be ever so much longer and more painful to the nurturer.

Still, it gave Shu's music and even his lyrics a genuine sweetness Sakuma Ryuuichi had left behind long ago.

If he'd ever had it.

He should just leave, but he couldn't. Masochistically, he waited for the song to finish, for the roar of the crowd and for Shuuichi's farewell scream.

He was outside the backstage door, smoking, when Shuuichi came running out looking frantically up and down the alley, before spotting him in his carefully chosen shadow.

"Considering you're trying to make your name as a lyricist, you showed some king-sized balls up there tonight."

Good opening, he thought, proud of himself, in a detached way, surprised his voice and hand weren't shaking to match his intellect-challenged gut.

Shuuichi stopped in front of him. He looked carefully through those blazing purple eyes, knowing full well that if he truly met them, Shu would see right through him.

He always did.

"You think I'd've been better off singing some damned song you wrote for Kitizawa Yuki? I'd've choked."

For Kitizawa. Even now, the specter of his dead tutor rose between them, trying to keep him away from Shuuichi. There was no point in objecting. Shuuichi would never believe the truth.

Kitizawa would see to it.

Eiri inhaled deeply, then released the smoke slowly, watching Shuuichi through the curling cloud. "You started to sing it. I know you did. What stopped you?"

"Hiro. He said we _couldn't_ lose...with lyrics by you."

"So? I thought you wanted to win."

"I _did._ But—" Shuuichi's brows tightened in his typical searching-for-the-right-words frown. "I—I had to do it myself. I thought you, of all people would realize that."

Somehow, the little lyricist never could put his thoughts into words. He tried, gods knew he tried, but his rather sappy lyrics were eloquent compared to his stumbling, stuttering, mile-a-minute attempts at verbal communication.

Shuuichi's head dropped, his ragged fringe of hair camouflaging those magnificent tell-all eyes. "I had to... to prove—to _myself_—that you were wrong. That Hiro was. That I didn't need anyone's help. Not even yours." His thin shoulders heaved in a sigh. "But that's the problem. You're right. Hiro is. I _do_ need help, because I'm...a...zero talent."

Yuki snorted, to hide the constriction in his heart. "Fuck you, brat. You just held an audience mesmerized by _humming._"

"You know what I mean. Sure, I can sing, but... I don't want to sing other people's words, I've never wanted that. I–I want to share what's in here." His hand rubbed his chest, and he gave another heaving sigh. "But that's just it. I have all these feelings, but they come out... shit. A big, fat, round zero." Another heavy sigh. "And maybe that's all they are, those so-called _feelings._ Nothing but a big...fat..."

"Baka." He meant to make it cutting, but it came out on a half-sob instead. He was too damned vulnerable to the brat tonight, and when those luminous eyes, swimming in unvoiced concern, lifted, he found himself whispering over and over: "Baka, baka, baka. Why d'you keep dwelling on that one blasted phrase? Can't you see, you passed that test...oh, so long ago?"

"Test?"

"Haven't you figured it? Seen it, in the time you've been with me? How many packages arrive in the mail every week? 'Fans' wanting me to edit their manuscripts, to help them get published. I've had _women_ pursue me into the john and slip them under the door while I was taking a dump. And then, there are the idea-fen: 'Oh, Yuki-sensei, I have this great idea! I'll give it to you and you can write it and we'll split the profits.'"

Just the thought made him shudder.

"That night in the park...when your lyrics blew into my face...god help me, I thought it was just one more ploy to get me to read some damned wannabe's work. I was trapped. I read the damned thing. There was a line or two with immense passion, a seed of something terribly real, and a whole lot of 'hell if I know what I'm talking about.' I've seen it a million times: writers with ideas but lacking the courage to follow those ideas through to some meaningful end. I gave you a standard, fucking line, y'damn brat!"

He controlled the urge to take his little idiot lover by the shoulders and shake sense into him.

"It's a standard ploy: if a wannabe writer can be discouraged, do it—for their own damned sake. It's fucking painful to put your psyche on a pedestal for consumers to take pot shots at on a daily basis. I said that to make you quit. I never expected to see you again and didn't give a damn if it hurt you. If it had the power to stop you, you'd hurt for one night. If it didn't... If it didn't stop you, you'd hurt for a lifetime, but the pain of _that_ kind of writing is nowhere near as great as the pain of not writing at all."

Temptation grew too strong, he reached out and touched that sweet, unhappy face.

"And you, idiot that you are, you just kept coming back for more. And you kept writing. And you began to live and that life flowed into your work and through you to your audience. This latest fiasco, hell, yes, you came up with some good ones—the fish thing was a little weird, but overall..."

"Are you saying..."

For once, he felt no inclination to laugh at Shuuichi's "deep thoughts" face, for all it was one of his more endearingly childish faces, but somehow, tonight, he just didn't feel like laughing at much of anything.

"Are you saying," Shuuichi repeated slowly, "that I _can_ write?"

"I'm saying that what I think doesn't matter. What do _you_ think? How do you feel when you sing your songs?"

Not that there could be any doubt. Even the fish song. Not even Shuichi had been able to sing that with a straight face, and his own laughter at himself had shown through, inviting the world to laugh with him. Shuichi felt every song he sang to the depths of his soul. He wouldn't sing it otherwise.

He looked down into those earnest, utterly honest, eyes and revised that "wouldn't" to "couldn't."

He took Shuichi's hands in his and squeezed. "I didn't write that song for Kitizawa Yuki—good god, if you'd ever heard him sing, you'd know that—but I didn't, Shu, I wrote it for you. I can't stand to see you cry, and what those bastards were doing to you was tearing you apart. I just . . . I just wanted to help."

Shuuichi stared at him, unblinking. Then: "Why'd you come here tonight?"

Why the hell was he asking that?

"You haven't been to a concert since that one you attended with Ayaka. Why'd you come tonight?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

"No. It's not." His softly-rounded face pinched tight with determination to find some truth he seemed convinced lay beneath Eiri's words.

"This contest has obsessed you for weeks," he explained, for all it was fucking obvious. "Of course I'd come to the final big showdown."

"With you, Yuki, there's never an 'of course.' Why'd you _really _come?"

"Hell if I . . ." Except, he did know. And, after all they'd been through, Shuuichi deserved an honest answer. "To hear you sing."

"You hear me sing every day. You're always telling me to shut up."

"Fortunately, you never listen to me."

Shuuichi frowned, probably trying to think that one through. "That can't be the only reason."

Yuki reached out and brushed his knuckle along the soft jawline. "Actually, it is, just not, maybe the _whole_ reason. —Truth?"

Shuuichi nodded.

"When I was writing it, I could hear your voice in every keystroke. I came because I... hell, because I wanted to hear the real thing. My words. Sung by you. Silly, huh?" He turned away, embarrassed, fumbling after a cigarette. "_Now_ who's the baka?"

Shuuichi didn't answer, but Yuki felt his eyes following every move. God, he wanted nothing more than to escape—

Slender arms slid around his waist, tentatively at first, then squeezing hard as he made no move to reject the gesture. He pressed the hands clasped on his stomach. "Shu, I really am—"

Shuuichi's arms tightened, and somehow he knew, for once talking wasn't what Shuuichi wanted.

And then, Shuuichi began to sing.

FIN

✴✴✴ ✴✴✴ ✴✴✴

**A/N:** There are a handful of allusions to Shu's lyric production that might seem counter to the manga scenario on which this story is based. I know that at least in the TokyoPop translation, Shuuichi says he's written nothing in the two years since their first single. (Actually, he alludes at one point during the Ryu competition to the two years he's known Eiri and in another to the fact that he hasn't written any lyrics since their first single.)

I freely admit, I don't buy into that one line as for me it runs counter to the overall substance of the story and the whole Yuki/Shu dynamic. I much prefer the implications that Yuki is an inspiration to Shu's creativity, not the death of it—just as Shu adds a new dimension to Yuki's stories. In the above take on the manga story, it's the pressure of turning out ten songs combined with Yuki's pod-person routine that throws Shu so completely off his game going into this "final exam" of Ryuichi's. After all, Bad Luck has continued to grow in popularity for two years and put out more songs and Shu _is _the lyricist for Bad Luck.

Anyway, hope y'all like it. I've got a few of these curious little vignettes. Please let me know if you'd like me to continue. —Vin


	2. Muse

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fanfiction based on Maki Murakami's exquisite story "Gravitation." I take no profit other than enjoyment.

**Summary:** A series of one-shots inspired by the anime and manga.

The following is an anime moment: Shu's first "official" night on Yuki's couch, and a tiny hint of why Yuki might have fallen for Shu and no one else.

(March 17, 2007: slight revision to original text. Thanks to Kagome Mokuba for pointing out the word salad!)

✴✴✴ ✴✴✴ ✴✴✴  
**Between the Lines:  
****Muse  
**by Vindaloo  
✴✴✴

Words were flowing as they hadn't in damned near two months.

Yuki rolled with the moment, sitting, eyes unfocused, fingers flying. There was no need to see the screen, not when the muse was working overtime.

The breakthrough scene had surprised him at first, the ending it foreshadowed would be unprecedented...for him. Not a death or utter ruination in sight. In fact, if he wasn't careful, it might actually be downright cheer—

"Whee-ee-ee..." It was a tiny sound, rather like a miniature train dopplering outside his study.

The screen snapped into focus, he glanced at the door, though his fingers never paused. It was a snappy dialogue-heavy scene, one that the characters currently residing in his hindbrain were writing practically without his mediation with the keyboard. All they needed were his fingers.

Outside the door, a flash of pink and orange, a whisper of socks on the slick, hardwood floor.

An unfamiliar tightness brushed his cheeks. Yuki made a quick assessment, and between one heartbeat and the next, wiped the incipient smile from his face, and forced his attention back to the screen...

Where he discovered an entire paragraph of nonsense words: his fingers had shifted over a key.

Brilliant. Never in three and a half years of full-time writing had he pulled that particular maneuver. Out of curiosity, he put his hands back into position and, while looking at the nonsense paragraphs, tried to type out...whatever it was he'd missed. In the end, it was a slow and tedious single keystroke at a time analysis, but he did salvage his two main characters' snappy repartee.

Lucky for Shindou. If he'd lost that section, it would've been the brat's fault, plain and simple, and he'd have had to march out and throw the idiot out on his...

He swallowed hard, forcing the thought of Shindou Shuuichi's ass out of his head.

Yeah, he'd have had to throw the kid out, and yet... He felt another smile threaten, and let it twitch into momentary existence. And yet, if he were honest with himself, he had only Shindou to thank for the scene at all.

Ever since that meeting in the park, the words had been damned near impossible to curb. Sleep happened in snatches when he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open any longer, food only when the headaches finally overcame the gallons of caffeine and tons of nicotine filling his veins, and even then it was takeout. He'd left the house only once since practically running the idiot down in the rain.

Once...to go to that fucking concert.

The sound of running water from the bathroom across the hallway became rain pounding on the window for his bickering lovers. They were soaked, dripping all over Shikata's expensive carpet. Soon, the bickering would turn to something very different and those soaked clothes would be scattered between the living room and the—

More sounds from the bathroom. Damn, even the kid's gargle was melodic. Shit, what an instrument genetics had dealt him. But it wasn't just genetics. Shindou'd worked at it, taken care of that instrument, for all he was obviously self-trained.

Seguchi would end that. Seguchi would see that he got the best vocal instructors available.

And likely ruin that essential unique quality, the purity, the...innocence permeating those tones.

Eiri scowled at the computer screen and began scattering virtual clothing at random, thinking of naked bodies and bedroom activities, striving to regain his creative zone.

This time, it was the buzz of an electric razor that distracted him. He choked on laughter. _Shaving?_ If that kid had three hairs on his chin, he'd be surprised.

His lovers tumbled into the bed. Soft skin drifted beneath Yoshi's expensively manicured fingertips.

Soft, smooth...Eiri's eyes drifted to half-mast as his fingers rippled across the keyboard. He didn't need to search deeply into memory for the words. A handful of days was all. A darkened room, the lights of the city limning a soft cheek, sparkling in the tears of gentle confusion.

That magnificent skin came between his thumb and the spacebar, the intercepted tear made his fingers slip uncertainly. He blinked his eyes open, corrected the error, and drifted back into that moment that made his fingers more clever than his mind.

Shuuichi had come alive beneath his hands and mouth. Little more than kisses had happened that night, though the idiot had been starry-eyed vacuous the following morning. A brush of the hand, lips on a sensitive neck, and the kid had rocketed through the ceiling. Multiple times. And then...crashed, leaving Yuki Eiri with the most painful hard-on of his twenty-two years.

Kisses and a hand-job, and three days later, Shindou's parked on the doorstep with his pillow, his mug, his comic and a computer. What would have happened if he'd actually fucked this...admittedly rather entrancing ...nutcase? Would they be married now?

Yuki frowned. Yoshi discovered a hickey, not of his making, and pulled back, hurt. Angry.

What the fuck had he gotten himself into? A week. One week. A week filled with unrelieved sexual tension...damned if he'd get himself that thoroughly involved. Damned if he'd give the nutcase the excuse. And yet...

Damn, the words just kept coming.

"Yuuuu—" The light singsong voice washed into the room, broke off abruptly on the soft hiss of another stocking-footed slide.

He continued typing, determinedly, never mind what was coming out his fingers now was utter nonsense. The kid was at his door, but damned if he'd look up. The kid would not be allowed to disrupt his work, and he'd damned well better learn that—

Another whisper of toes on the hardwood, a soft _thud_ as Shindou disappeared from the doorway just visible in Eiri's peripheral vision.

"Good...night."

The words drifted in on a breath of cherry-blossom purity.

His fingers froze.

Unbelievable. No argument. No attempt to break into his concentration. No whining insistence for a goodnight kiss. No leave your work and come make love to me...

Not even a justifiable request to sleep in Yuki's bed, just a soft padding of feet headed for the couch where he'd left his pillow and a hideous, worn blanket. The couch...where he'd waked up the last time he'd fallen asleep in this apartment.

Eiri didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't this gentle acceptance of a writer's reality.

The kid had arrived on his doorstep, had declared his intentions with a tackle that would do a linebacker proud, had marked his territory with cheerful oblivion, and then...faded into the background. Yuki had returned to work. The kid had independently set up his computer and immersed himself in his own work.

Writing more lyrics, no doubt. Kami-sama, was he going to be subjected to editing that love-sick garbage day in and day—

Except it wasn't garbage. It was innocent to the point of naïve, but there was something painfully honest about it. An honesty frightening to a man whose entire life was predicated on denial and lies.

But Shuuichi had worked in independent silence, and Eiri's words had flowed non-stop. At some point, he wasn't certain of the time, only that it came just before hunger forced him to stop writing, pizza had happened. With beer. He hadn't heard the kid make the call. Hadn't heard the arrival of the simple pepperoni and fresh basil, thick-crust offering. It had simply arrived in his office on stockinged feet, and a soft _Hope you like pepperoni_.

He didn't know what he'd expected, but it definitely wasn't what he'd gotten thus far.

In what would have seemed an amazingly short time to someone who hadn't already witnessed the kid's ability to crash first hand, a soft snore drifted down the hallway.

Eiri pressed the laptop's lid down, felt more than heard the _click_ as the latch slid into place.

There'd be no more words tonight. The muse had...gone to sleep.

He tossed his glasses onto the desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose, sweeping the press of fingertips across eyes gone scratchy.

Time for bed.

Hands pressed flat to the desktop helped lever him out of the chair. He stood there a moment, bent over, waiting for the feeling to return to his feet.

Oh, it had been a long session. A good session. He felt it in his bones. There'd be little need for a rewrite, not of these scenes. And if Mizuki asked for changes...well, she'd have a fight on her hands. But he didn't think she'd ask. Mizuki, he had no doubt, would love what had come out of his fingers today.

He stretched a back gone painfully stiff, and headed out, turning off the lights, but somehow, his feet turned left rather than right and he found himself in the living room, staring down at the unwanted presence sprawled on his couch.

The idiot even smiled in his sleep. Smiled. Snored. And drooled.

Yuki Eiri had shared his bed with countless fashion plates. None had drooled. Hell, none of them had ever allowed him to see them sans makeup. Not that he'd want to. Their looks had been all they had going for them.

More to the point, they'd always had the good common sense to get out once the sex was done.

Of course, that might have been related to the fact that he never failed to clarify that he didn't _do_ mornings-after. Sex happened, then his bed was his own. Period. And fashion plates didn't sleep on couches.

Neither did they drool.

And somehow, even if they'd stayed, he didn't think they'd lie there, bare limbs exposed to the cold air, a worn blanket strewn haphazardly over their skinny...

He reached to pull the blanket into place.

"Yu–uu–uu...ki." Soft-voiced murmur on a sleepy smile, a gentle shift of that supple body. A roll to the side and into a foetal curl.

The blanket slid from suddenly-numb fingers and Yuki pulled back, staring from his fingers to that disturbing presence on his couch. Was he awake? Was that a conscious manipulation? Somehow, he didn't think so. The sweetly-curved mouth and even breaths were sleep incarnate, and the kid was a rotten actor. Recognition, even in sleep? An interrupted dream?

Damn, he hated all the options. Hated this feeling that permeated his gut, that made him want to reach out and carry the small body into his bed, that wanted to curl around the warmth of another human being and let that freshness, that...purity wash away everything that made Yuki Eiri...Yuki Eiri.

He frowned. Hard. Damned if he'd accept that. He was who he was and happy—well, content—with the result. He was a fucking fine author. Successful. Fulfilled. He didn't need... whatever this...pocketsized energizer bunny thought he had to offer.

A tiny hitch-breath, a fumbling search for the worn blanket as the foetal curl tightened. Chilling. Body temperature plummeting in direct reaction to the energy he exuded while awake.

That worn blanket would never be enough.

An unwanted tightness in his groin brought thoughts of a warm bed and a quick, easy answer to that chilling body.

Dammit, no. This kid had already contaminated the fundamental Yuki Eiri too deeply. He'd not hand Shindou that key as well. His hand would take care of the problem tonight, and tomorrow...damned if he wouldn't go pick up some fashionplate at the nearest bar. He would not, would _not_ cum into that firm, unbelievably tempting ass.

Another tiny whimper, a mindless tug on the blanket which only succeeded in pulling it completely off, leaving the skinny ribs exposed. Skinny ribs above a naval which, as he'd found out that first night, harbored one of the kid's orgasmic secrets. One of many. The idiot was a walking, talking—scratch that, _singing—_erogenous zone.

Eiri swallowed hard—and went to find the spare comforter.

And after the distraction was resolved, he found himself back at his computer, fingers flying.

There were, after all, orgasms...

...and orgasms.

FIN

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**A/N: **I know that as far as the manga is concerned, there's no ambiguity about Yuki and Shu's first time, but I think there's plenty in the anime to suggest their relationship might not have been consummated quite so quickly, possibly even not until the time in Yuki's bedroom following Shu's rape. That interpretation raises a lot of poignant possibilities that I've played with in several of my fanfics, not surprising since I saw the anime long before I got my hands on the manga.

Please R&R


	3. One in a Million

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is all Maki Murakami's brainchild. I'm just playing in the sandbox.

**A/N:** This is just a little follow up to the scene from the anime...track seven, I think, where Shuuichi is standing outside the recording room about to drop. I always thought that he was short changed and he deserved a reward for working so hard to sell a million copies.

For those who've requested more stories that are manga based, I'm re-reading (ah, the difficulties of "research!") in search of inspiration. I know there were some other moments, but I'd like a refresher course. Might take a while, but I'll get them. Thanks for the encouragement! —Vin

✴✴✴ ✴✴✴ ✴✴✴  
**Between the Lines:  
One in a million**  
by Vindaloo  
✴✴✴ ✴✴✴ ✴✴✴

A million copies, a million copies, a date with Yuki. All day, just him and Yuki.

Exhaustion pounded in his ears; Shuuichi countered it with his mantra, took a deep breath and gathered his strength to burst into the recording studio the way they all expected, the way that got everyone fired up.

Including him.

"Hai di ho!" He announced to the room at large and grinned as the requisite groan greeted him.

Rehearsal went well enough, Hiro, his best friend and Bad Luck's lead guitarist was his steady, inspired self and Suguru, their ridiculously young but impossibly talented keyboardist could do no wrong. But Shuuichi knew, secretly, his own performance lacked energy, for all no one said a negative word to him about it.

He could only hope he'd find some reserve in time for the TV appearance tomorrow night. If only... but Yuki was gone, a book-signing somewhere out of town for his new book, which was good, because it meant the book was selling well, which would make Yuki happy, but, oh, he missed him. The house was empty and cold without him.

Shuuichi slumped onto the couch in the lounge, the canned coffee cradled between his hands, more for warmth than from any desire to consume its contents. He'd had far too much caffeine since Yuki left.

Two more days and _he'd _be home. Two more days of fast food and Pocky. Two more days of going home to dark silence. Two more days...of an empty bed.

Funny how high that had become on his priority list. A year ago, even two months...

_Clang!_

He jerked awake, his head snapping up painfully. He stared down at the can on the floor, thinking that perhaps he should lean over and pick it up.

✴✴✴

_Thud!_

That didn't sound good. Hiro, on his way to the garage and a date with his own bed, yawned, paused by the lounge door and stuck his nose in to find out what had fallen.

Not what. Who.

Shuuichi. In a heap on the floor, his hair in imminent danger from a slowly spreading puddle of coffee.

Idiot. He was exhausting himself. It wasn't just the singing, but interviews and TV spots and brainstorming with K, and days spent freezing his ass off in a waterfall for a damned music video. He was exhausting himself, and everyone seemed to realize it but him. He skipped blithely past all attempts to make him slow up, and with Yuki out of town, it had only been worse.

He was obsessed with that carrot on a stick K had placed in front of his nose: a date with Yuki. Of course, he didn't know it was K's doing. He thought it was all Yuki's notion, and that one simple lie worried Hiro to his core.

Because Suuichi was also, he had confided to Hiro in one unguarded, sleep-deprived moment, worried that Yuki would come back "cured" of any attraction for him. Hiro had tried to reassure him, but in actual fact, Hiro had no idea what Yuki actually felt for Shu, and he feared, greatly, for his friend should his concerns prove founded.

The fact was, date or no date, if Yuki's heart wasn't behind it, _Shuuichi _was going to be heart_broken._

The worse part, at least as far as all Shu's hard work was concerned, was that between the exhaustion and the distraction, Shu's performance was suffering. The effervescence was missing. Fortunately, the album was finished; it wouldn't suffer, but the live TV gig tomorrow for which they'd been rehearsing might well, and that show was the final big push, the appearance K insisted would tip the scales for those million copies Shu needed for his dream date.

What Shu needed now was sleep. Badly. Hiro was just afraid he needed something else far more important than sleep, something only one person could provide, and that one person was a very long drive away, apparently oblivious to the toll all this was taking on the man he claimed to love.

Ah, well, there was no sense waking Shuuichi up just to go home, not when there was a perfectly good futon not ten feet away. Hiro rescued the coffee can and threw a handful of paper towels down to soak up the puddle.

Shuuichi slept on, murmuring softly.

The couch folded out easily enough, complete with pillows and blankets in the roll-out drawers beneath the frame: not the first emergency sleepover this place had seen. And when everything was ready, Hiro squatted beside sleeping beauty (who wasn't looking particularly beautiful at the moment) and tugged gently at his tousled mop of hair.

"Wake up, Shu-kun." He murmured, and got a single bleary purple eye for his trouble. The other appeared to be glued shut. He jerked his head toward the futon. "Wake up and go to bed, you moron."

He doubted the words registered, but when he tugged on Shuuichi's arm, Shuuichi rolled willingly enough to his feet, only to collapse in the other direction and onto the bed. Hiro pushed his friend back into the pillows, straightened out his legs, pulled off his shoes, and drew the covers over him.

Shuuichi murmured something again, and curled around onto his side. His fingers reached blindly for a loose pillow, pulled it to tuck under his chin, his arms finding their way around it.

"Yu . . . ki . . .?" The murmur took a not unexpected form, ended in a little sniff as Shuuichi's arms closed tighter around the pillow.

"Sorry, Shu," Hiro said, and, head down, turned to leave.

A light touch to his arm stopped him.

He blinked wearily; his eyes took in the polished shoes (no socks), followed the perfect crease of tailored trousers, past the trim waist and silk shirt to the golden-topped head.

"Yuki," he said, stupidly. "Thought you were in Kyoto."

"Came back early. Finished the signing and passed on their self-congratulatory party, thanks all the same. Thought maybe he—"

"Your timing couldn't be better. Want help getting him down to the car?"

"Let him sleep." Only then did the exhaustion in Yuki's voice register.

Hiro squinted into the shadowed features. "Good god, did you drive yourself back?"

A nod. A faint smile. "Fastest way home."

No doubt. He'd seen this man drive. Fabric brushed his hand: Yuki's coat.

"Would you mind finding a hanger somewhere?"

Good . . . god. A civil request.

Silk shirt and trousers found a home on one of the chairs. "Sorry to impose. Sure you're wanting to be—"

Yuki staggered and Hiro caught his arm to steady him, further startled when that presumption warranted no more than a sleepy, _Thanks._

"No problem." He doubted, somehow, that Yuki heard him at all. The exhausted author crawled under the covers, settling at Shuuichi's back, sliding an arm under Shuuichi's pillow. Shuuichi stiffened, ever-so-slightly.

"Shu-chan?" Yuki's whisper was more a breath on the air, and a little caught-breath gasp escaped Shuuichi before he rolled over, deserting synthetic feathers for a more rewarding, if less conforming, pillow.

Hiro smiled, the most important question answered, and turned off the lights before he shut the door.

✴

Next morning, the door to the lounge was still shut—and there was a hand-scrawled _Do Not Disturb_ sign taped to it.

K's highly recognizable scrawl, which carried with it an unwritten: _On pain of death_.

Hiro grinned. "Enjoy yourself, buddy," he said softly and headed down for the studio, where K damn well better have brought in lattes for all.

There was caffeine aplenty, but no bodies absorbing it. Puzzled, he began checking doors at random, found the lot of them, Fujisaki, Sakano, and K, in a small closet of a room, perched on any available surface, staring...at a computer screen. On the screen...

"You disgusting voyeurs," he said, and set the bag filled with some of Shuuichi's healthier breakfast favorites on the floor as he closed the door.

"Ha!" K glanced up. "'Mornin', Hiroshi. Don't claim you haven't wondered."

"Wondered what? What two guys do in bed together? Not interested, thanks."

"Not two guys. These two. Never wondered what a man like Yuki Eiri sees in our Shu-kun?"

No, he thought, but didn't say. Shuuichi was a magnet, a gravitational blackhole that sucked you in and made you react. His love for his friend went one way, Yuki Eiri's—

"Well, wonder no more."

He frowned and refused to look.

K laughed. "Don't worry. Yuki-san's well aware of us. Won't see much—he's keeping the sheet over the interesting parts, but—"

"How many times is that?" A note of awe colored Fujisaki's young voice.

"And what's _he_ doing in here. Good grief, K, he's a kid—"

"Going on ninety. Give it a rest, Mr Prude." K turned back to the screen. "Shit, listen! The kid's singing. Talk about breath control—"

Despite himself, Hiro looked—and couldn't look away. Shuuichi had always been a self-centered brat. No small part of his magic on stage was to live so thoroughly in the moment that he sucked the audience into his world, and made them feel with the same intensity he brought to his everyday existence. Oh, he tried, and when he thought about it, was very sensitive to the needs and feelings of others, but it took a conscious effort on his part.

Right now, the little hedonist was immersed in his own response to his lover's obviously skilled touch.

Although, truth be told, Yuki could have breathed on his hair at the moment and gotten an arousal. He'd swear that Shuuichi rarely actually thought about sex, but he absorbed sensory input the way a sponge absorbed water, and his body reacted without any of the inhibitions normal people's minds put into the equation.

And that uninhibited response was...intoxicating, even several steps removed. What Yuki must feel, being the maestro of this particular violin...

But one only had to see the look on Yuki's face to know. Hiro, who truly loved to read, had heard authors speak often and with a certain wistful regret of the delayed—and limited— gratification of their art form, of the frustration of writing something you hope will move your audience, but having to wait for months or even years to know if you've succeeded. Even then, reader feedback would be filtered by time and an attempt to express their reactions rationally.

There was nothing rational about the effect of this cause: it was there in front of him, laid out in as pure and honest a form as one human could give another and—

And Yuki was drunk on it. That he knew they were being watched, that he knew where the cameras were, was obvious, and the most tender aspect of his lovemaking was his way of keeping his oblivious lover unaware of those cameras even as he deftly wielded the sheet, protecting their most private moments from their gaping audience.

And yet, he could no more stop himself from feeding Shuuichi's need than he could stop breathing. More, he couldn't stop drinking in the energy Shuuichi exuded from every pore of his being.

He was as starved as Shuuichi. It was...beautiful.

"But K-san," Fujisaki's voice was worried now. "We've got that concert tonight. Shindou-san—"

"Will be ready." K's grin widened. "Now."

And his demonic laughter filled the room.

FIN

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**A/N: **Oh, I do love Hiro. Talk about the perfect best friend...Say, folks, just closed on a house and have dived headlong into box-hauling, painting, and fixit mode. Any errors may be applied to that source with my blessings! Also...not sure when the next update...to anything will be. The move involves the ever-dangerous computer network dimensional transmographication, so...wish me luck!

**Reviews:**

**Kagome Mokuba: **I know what you're saying regarding length. I actually rewrote Lyrics before posting and might have gone into a bit too much detail. I still like it as is, but the original concept was shorter. More concise. When I tried to make it independent of prior knowledge of the manga, it might have slowed it up. The ideal is probably somewhere in between the two, but I decided to leave it as is, at least for now. I appreciate the observation.

**Jersey Thursday:** I always love your reviews. You notice such neat things. One thing I learned actually doing comics was how slow a scene could get if you put in too much detail. Sometimes, I could wish the Gravi manga had a bit more detail, but I always wonder how much is lost both in literal and cultural translation. Of course, if it were, I wouldn't get to write these:D

**Leah: **Thank you!

**BlooDy-May:** You're so sweet. I admit, I've got a bit of a backlog, so you'll be inundated for a while, then I'll probably disappear until more inspiration happens...unless of course, new story keeps coming! These lads are _very_ persistent! And please please please...do not demise! I depend on your reviews!

**Harper C:** Thank you. I really feel the creative aspect of their relationship is by far the most interesting and unique. Curiously, the "abusive" aspects so many writers seem to feel is destructive is something I tend to perceive as a positive. (Ducking and rolling.) Shuuichi thrives on opposition...that much is obvious. Yuki and Ryu constantly push him. Of course, I also, as you can tell from these stories, don't see it as a constant within the relationship. And it's that much more subtle nurturing by both Y and R that I find most intriguing. Hiro's constant support has obviously helped get Shu to this point, but their relationship and creative dynamic is grounded in a shared childhood. His relationships with Y and R are on a whole different, completely adult level.

**Tsubaki:** Always love to hear from you. I admit, I probably build a whole lot into small moments, but I maintain there _has_ to be a working as well as personal relationship between these two. Shu's got to be able to coexist with a writer and knowing when to be quiet is absolutely fundamental to that process. Alternatively, Yuki needs to be shaken out of his hermitic writer's existence. As for Yuki's crazed outbursts...any writer knows there are times when someone _breathing_ in the next room will bring out the werewolf:D

**Sarah: **I'm not going to be obsessive regarding the canon, (you'll find my dialogue varies and even, in a later one, that I truncate a scene or two just to make the pacing of the story right) but I do want these little vignettes to coexist smoothly with the manga and/or anime. That's part of the fun. They're my "take" on some of the smaller moments. Also, I always kinda hoped our real-world Shuuichi would write/record "My Fish." I'm extremely curious:D

**Shisho kat & geniusgirl & EIRI-CHICK: **Thank you! I've got a couple more written (one that's several parts, which I'll probably make a separate post), but hope to do some others soon.

**Dambae: **Thank you for the thumbs up:D The whole question of 'themed' one-shots is an interesting one. Over on FFnet, a one shot standalone can be gone in a day or even less, getting very little exposure and by- passing those who might be looking for new stories from a given author. On GB, we have the exact opposite problem in the time it takes a story to clear the recent list. By combining them, I can post a new story without bumping someone off, if the 'anthology' is still on the list. The other advantage is, I'd written a handful of these 'inspired by a manga-moment' stories, but now I've thought of them in this 'themed' way other stories are starting to suggest themselves and so will hopefully lead to stories I might otherwise not have written.

**Di Long:** (Blush) Thank you. I have had a lot of practice, I admit. As for the content...I love playing in the basically cannon universe, though I admit, the twist on the characters is my own. I certainly hope it's close to what Maki Murakami intended, but I suppose all fanfic writers believe that:D:D:D But what Gravi brought to me was optimism at a time when I needed a good dose and I think (hope) that's probably reflected in the work. Curiously, the most non-cannon piece I've written (I'm still editing it) is one inspired by another fanfic! Talk about incestuous:D:D:D

Thanks to all! Please R&R


	4. The Something That's Missing

**Disclaimer**: Gravitation is all Maki Murakami's brainchild. I'm just playing in the sandbox with no profit to myself other than joy.

**A/N**: Okay...all the talk about Ryu and Shu over on Dream Date's Review section got my inner Ryu in a tizzy. He wouldn't let me sleep last night until I gave in and wrote the following. Hope you get half the giggles out of reading it that I got writing it. Unbeta'd and barely rewritten. If it doesn't make sense...blame Ryu.

✴✴✴ ✴✴✴ ✴✴✴  
**The Something That's Missing**:  
Ryu's reflections on Shu, Yuki, Touma...and the biology of creativity.  
by Vindaloo  
✴✴✴ ✴✴✴ ✴✴✴

He saved me, you know. I went to America and somewhere, I lost myself. His sparkle guided me back. My shining, pink-headed savior.

But, I get ahead of myself.

I think Touma knew. I think he saw what was happening, even from so far away, and brought me back to Japan to save me. He heard something, _saw _Something in this young singer, Something he couldn't supply, and so he brought us together.

Manipulative bastard.

And I love him for it.

Touma knew, somehow, that that Something was what I was missing. What I had lost, there in America.

He's always been able to read my soul that way.

Spooky.

And I love him for it.

Touma-kun and I, we have something special, you know. Unlike Shu-chan, I never, ever played an instrument. There was never anything but singing for me. I don't read music. Never have. I ... sing. I write the words and the music happens.

Just...happens. It just comes out of my mouth and Touma-kun takes that music that just happened and turns it into magic.

Touma-kun was also part of what I lost, when I went to America. Oh, I tried letting others turn the music to magic, but it wasn't the same. It was just...music. So all I could do was turn the songs I'd already sung into English for a new audience.

Bo-o-o-o-ring.

Oh, I ate up the enthusiasm, the love. That's what we do, you know. We front men thrive on the love that comes like buffeting waves from the audience. Like great immovable rocks, we absorb the shock of the breakers and let the tamed love ripple back onto the sandy shore of our musicians.

To survive that onslaught, we need an insatiable appetite for love. And that love must go somewhere. It has to flow through us or we would explode, like a nova in the heavens. That's where the shine, the sparkle comes from, but that's secondary energy. The true energy comes from pouring the love actively into...something.

I lost that. For me, the love flowed into my music, my words. Without Touma, the words stagnated. I knew, somehow, that something was wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I sang. I sang harder than I'd ever sung before. The love of the audience came rushing in yet still I felt ... empty. No, that's not right. I was full. Too full. Nothing...fit.

All that love had no where to go.

I grew constipated on love.

Eewww...gross.

Leaving that.

When the love has nowhere to go, you can't take it in any more. The sparkle...fizzles and dies.

It's very depressing.

I tried. I assumed the childish façade that once came so easily, so naturally. That fooled everyone, even K-san, into thinking all was well. But all wasn't well. All was sick. Very sick. Finally, I poured my love into the one being who would understand everything.

Kuma-chan.

Kuma-chan is very wise. He whispers the truths of the world to me. He's the one who revealed the bitter truth: Ryuichi was dying. Kuma-chan simply wasn't enough.

I think Kuma-chan conspired then with Touma-kun and together they put Shu-chan and me together...to save us both.

Oh, yes, Touma told me why he brought me back...or why he pretended to bring me back. Shu-chan was me...a decade ago, or so Touma-kun and K-san claimed. Shu-chan had to learn to control his sparkle or he would fizzle and die.

But really, Touma-kun wanted me to see Shu-chan because he knew Shu-chan had that Something which I had lost and that somehow, someway, Shu-chan would help me find it again.

And he did. I saw him freeze up there on stage all that love just bottled up inside, and I could no more sit there silent than I could stop breathing. I sang to him. I sang as I hadn't sung in years. Just me and the music. No instruments. No Touma. The First Song. The most Magical Song I'd ever sung. I sang to him and felt that love of his ooze out his pours and into the air, blending with the sound, and by the time I climbed up on the stage, I knew his music was ready to join his love.

I know now it was Yuki-the-bastard-san who'd caused that blockage. Yuki-the-bastard-san who had simultaneously inspired both anger and love in my sweet counterpart.

But Shu-chan isn't me, not really. Oh, we're much the same, superficially, but that's what people don't realize. For me, the music, the words, were never difficult. I never had idols that set me goals, there was just me and the music and Touma who made the music live.

Shu-chan was torn. Shu-chan tried to do it all. He tried to be Touma on the synthesizer and me at the microphone. The love was getting all mixed up inside him. Congealing into a gooey mess on the shore of Shu-chan's soul.

Until he met Yuki-the-bastard-san.

Yuki-the-bastard-san helped...unblock Shu-chan's musical constipation.

Hmmm...I like that. Yuki-the-laxative-san. _Tee-hee-hee._

Oh, excuse me. Gomenasai! Gomen. Gomen.

Yes, Yuki got there before me, and got to save my savior first. It doesn't seem fair. I wanted to do that for him. I wanted to be there. And I have been, in my own way. I've done things...

But again, I get ahead of myself.

Yuki-the-bastard-san made him mad, you see. Sometimes anger is as good as love. Sometimes, for some people, even better.

Myself, I hate being mad. I scare myself when I'm mad. I don't know what I'll do. I might explode. So I don't get angry. Shu-chan...Shu-chan is like a kitten. Hiss-spit! Hiss-spit! His little claws come out, his tiny teeth bare. He doesn't do much damage, but oh, he gets inspired! He wants to show the world.

And he shines. He shines like...mad... when he's mad, but not as much as when he's in love.

Yuki-the-bastard-san inspired both in him, and for a while, Shu-chan was a walking nova. I've never seen anything like it. I was...I am...in awe of it.

I've had many lovers, but it's not the same. Physical release is overrated. Sleeping with someone (to use the silly vernacular) is just sex. Sorry, but that's the way it is. Maybe it's okay for normal people, I don't know. I'm not...normal.

Maybe you noticed?

Shu-chan isn't normal either. His love isn't normal. And only Yuki-the-bastard-san can trigger it. Shu-chan loves his music, but his music isn't enough. He loves...loving.

I never had that problem. Sex was cool, but love...I love Touma-kun because Touma-kun makes the music live.

And for Shu-chan, Yuki makes his music live, and so Shu-chan loves him.

But Yuki-the-bastard-san mixes the love up with the sex. That's ... dangerous. The music is too fragile and gets so easily confused.

For a while, though, it was fine. Shuuichi-the-nova-chan lit the way for all of us. But then, Yuki-the-bastard-san left. Just left. And took my savior's sparkle with him.

I hated him for that.

But I understood him, too. The light frightened him. Yuki-san is a creature of darkness. His anger, like mine, is something to be feared. For me, the music tames the anger. For Yuki-san, his words only made his constipation worse.

Oh, yes, Yuki-san was constipated, too. Worse than any of us.

It's harder for him, you know. He writes many, many, many words. Complicated words in convolute sentences. The love from his fans comes indirectly. Through even more words and more sitting and typing. All those tangled words and all the sitting is just plain bad for you.

When Shu-chan entered Yuki-san's life, Yuki-san's soul began to stir, began to fight that hardness within, wanting...out. The more Shu-chan sparkled, the more Yuki-san's soul sought the light it could sense but not reach.

What? You think I shouldn't be so sympathetic to Yuki-the-bastard-san? You think because I said I hated him for leaving, you think because I call him a bastard that I hate him?

How could I possibly hate him? He's my precious Shu-chan's other side. He's the one who balances my Shu-chan. He...He...

_What's that, Kuma-chan? Oh! That's perfect._

Kuma-chan says Yuki-the-bastard-san's the toothpaste that keeps Shu-chan's sweetness from giving us all cavities.

Kuma-chan's so clever.

But when Yuki-the-bastard-san left, Shu-chan's sweetness began to ferment, and Shu-chan's music grew constipated once more. And as it had with me, it began to die.

I saw it happening and could do nothing to stop it. You see, I think quite adequately, but when I try to say things, in any way other than my lyrics, it gets all muddled between my head and my mouth. I get frustrated and try to let Kuma-chan speak for me, but sometimes even that doesn't work.

Overnight, my beautiful shining angel became a robot. An automaton singing...perfectly. Every time. And every time the same. I felt my own sparkle dying as my guiding light faded to black. Kuma-chan ceased to talk and became a lifeless stuffed pink rabbit.

And for an instant, I hated my savior. It was only an instant, but that was all it took. I rejected him. I walked past him and thought...terrible thoughts.

And Shu-chan's voice died.

Did I tell you being angry terrified me?

And I was terrified. I was terrified for Shu. I was terrified for me. If Shu died, would I die as well?

Or had I been wrong? Had I been terribly wrong and only thought I'd seen the magic in Shu? Was everything I believed in a lie?

I went to the studio, late at night. I listened, over and over and over again to the music Shu-chan had made when first we met. I wasn't wrong. The magic was there. It was Yuki-the-bastard-san who had made it disappear.

And in the listening, I felt my own music, my love, begin to flow again. I could have wept for joy.

Except within me was the knowledge that the love was still bound up inside my tiny savior. Shu-chan was just...singing. Was making the noise that would make the money.

I had to tell him, had to explain how the music must flow, how the light must escape before he died. That Yuki-the-bastard-san had made it disappear and that he needed Yuki-the-bastard-san to make it shine again.

And as I sat, listening to the magic, Shu-chan appeared at the door. I could tell in an instant his sparkle had imploded upon itself. He was close to death. His arms wrapped tight around a tablet, pressing it to his chest as he bowed. He ducked his head, refusing to meet my eyes, apologizing, and stepped back.

I had to save him. My darling savior. The love his music had released inside me flowed out and I leapt to stop him, screaming his name.

As I touched, I felt the pain, the confusion. I strove to find the words, but they wouldn't come. Kuma-chan wasn't there. Kuma-chan couldn't speak for me. Lyrics tickled my brain, but the love was still too congested within me.

I grabbed the tablet, the crayons he had in his pack and began to draw, trying desperately to explain. But the love exploded. I lost all control as I drew my soul, big sweeping lines that made me scream in ecstacy.

Until I looked again at my savior. My darling, lost, dying savior.

His drawing was...dead. Just like him.

I knew, then, how to tell him. I grabbed the tablet, grabbed the crayons and made the funny little figure shine.

I think he understood.

He disappeared the next day. He went to find his sparkly...in Yuki-the-bastard-san. And when he comes back...

When he comes back...

When he comes back, we'll shine toge—

Oh, look! There's a butterfly...

**FIN**

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Hope this brought a smile to your face. Reviews cherished. —Vin


	5. For the Love of

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is all Maki Murakami's brainchild. I'm just playing in the sandbox.

**A/N:** Long time no see! Sorry about that. I'm actually working. (What a concept!) Hope this finds you all ready and eager to enter the holiday season. Personally, I'm hoping for _Cotton Candy Snow_ inspiration! It's in the forecast! YAY!

**A/N:** This is another little filler piece for the anime. I've never been comfortable with Hiro's implied reasons for coming back to the band (i.e. a date with Ayaka). It's too hypocritical for my favorite, sane Gravi character (he hasn't a lot of competition, has he?) While rewatching the series the other night, this little bit came to me. Hope you enjoy.

✴✴✴ ✴✴✴ ✴✴✴  
**Between the Lines:  
****For the Love Of . . .**

**By Vindaloo**  
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"What . . . What did you say?"

"I said, Nakano-san, that if you sell a million copies of your album, I will go out with you."

There it was: his day, or rather late night, dreams on a platter. And all he had to do was go back. Back to the music he loved; back to the band he hated leaving in the first place. Back to his best friend. Back . . . to the cutthroat manager and producer who were willing to go to any lengths to sell records, even if it meant turning the lead singer's love life into a daytime soap opera.

Never mind Shuuichi manage that all on his own; it didn't need to be plastered all over the tabloids.

And that was _after_ their insane manager had used Shuuichi's obsessive, bittersweet love for Yuki to practically work himself to death to sell those copies legitimately. _Here, Shu, work day and night in the recording studio, give nonstop interviews and oh, in your spare time, stand in a freezing cold waterfall and sing your heart out while you get frostbite, all for a fucking date with Yuki . . ._

He'd said goodbye to the whole three ring circus. Had told K to take his million copies and shove them up his ass . . . Well, he hadn't said it in so many words, but he'd wanted to. He'd known when he did it that Shuuichi was too damned committed, to both his music and Yuki, to give up and walk out with him. He didn't even consider asking it of him, but he simply couldn't stand seeing his best friend destroyed, bit by bit, (all in his best interests, of course) by people who claimed they cared about him.

And now, here was this lovely young woman, Yuki Eiri's ex-fiancé, someone he'd dreamed about for weeks now . . . holding out the same damned carrot Yuki and K had held out for Shu. Come back. Behave. Lie back and enjoy it, and you'll get a date with your dream partner.

As if a date granted under such circumstances would have a chance in hell of being anything other than an unmitigated disaster. He'd bet K already had the paparazzi primed and waiting to catch them so much as holding hands. _Let's go for the heterosexual voyeurs, now we've nailed the yaoi fans._

Hiro's ears buzzed. He took an awkward step backward, caught himself on the window sill and propped there, staring stupidly at the pretty young woman standing demurely in the middle of the packing chaos that was his living room. Her long, sleek hair shimmered in the light streaming through his dirty windows: he hadn't bothered much with cleaning the last few months. First the push to sell the albums, then . . . well, there hadn't seemed much point.

So, sell a million and Ayaka would go on a date. Like hell Yuki-san wasn't behind _that_ proposition. It was like the snarky author to share the torture: if _he _had to go on a date with Shu, someone else had to suffer as well. And if the arrangement made his eager little lover that much happier, well, Yuki-san just get that much more booty out of his already overly cooperative little uke.

Damn him.

Or maybe it wasn't Yuki-san. Maybe it was K. Gods, that demented bastard would do it. He'd do anything for publicity, and Nakano Hiroshi, Bad Luck's prodigal guitarist, running back now, tail between his legs, that would be headlines indeed. Likely they'd give him some sort of bonus just so they could say they'd met some fictitious demands of his.

But did they really believe he was that shallow? That he'd take advantage of this sweet girl's love for her ex-fiancé, a love that would make her do anything to make Yuki-san happy—which meant making his idiot little lover happy—and snap at the painfully obvious bait?

And yet, Buddha save him, he _had_ been tempted, just for that one brief moment.

But was it the date that tempted him? Was he truly that shallow? Or. . . was it the excuse? His guitar, his beloved acoustic guitar, mocked him from its stand in the corner of the room. He hadn't had the heart yet to pack it, not even to put it in the case with the lid open.

Did he really _want _to leave?

Sure, he was pissed as hell at K-san's tactics. No one had the right to play with Shu's emotions—he was too easy a mark, wearing them as openly as he did. And setting him up, forcing Yuki-san to Out them both on national television . . . just to sell records, that was about as low as you could get. He couldn't stand to see his best friend used that way, but Shu, innocent, silly Shu, would never even realize he was being used. He'd just keep giving and enduring, and time afer time, ploy after ploy, by the time Hiro could see when K was up to, it would be too late to do anything about it.

Where it came to devious, compared with K-san, Nakano Hiroshi was a piker. He simply couldn't anticipate the schemes K would come up with.

Like this one. Unfortunately (for K) though he'd tempted Hiro, he'd really used the wrong bait. A date with Ayaka was a dream he cherished, yes, but there was an older dream, a more precious dream, one he'd first shared with a tousle-haired middle-schooler he'd discovered dancing in the park, singing Nittle Graspers' newest hit at the top of his young lungs.

He'd been an introverted nerd, back then, studying day and night, preparing, even then, to become the doctor-son his parents dreamed of having. And then, one day, just on a whim, he'd picked up a guitar and discovered a gift, a skill that had rippled up from his heart and out his fingertips almost without conscious intervention. He used to sneak off to the park to practice and one day, as he settled into his private nook on the stone bench he'd claimed as his own, a voice, pure and strong, had infiltrated the morning air. As he listened, his fingers had begun to itch and just like that, he began playing to that enthusiastic young voice, letting his strings ripple in and around the clear tones.

Shuuichi had never missed a beat. He'd danced around a rhododendron shrub and into Hiro's little glen, singing all the while to his 'microphone,' a stick with rhododendrons on the end, and when the song ended, without even asking Hiro's name, had proclaimed they were the heirs to Nittle Grasper, and that one day, they'd sell a million copies of their first album.

That . . . _that_ was the oldest, most enduring dream of his life. A dream shared with the best, most talented friend a guy ever had.

Damn.

"Nakano-san?"

"Ayaka-san, I . . ." What could he say? "You're right. I do . . . care . . . for you. I would be most honored if you would accompany me on a date under any circumstances, but at the moment, I . . . You've . . . given me something to think about and I need to be alone."

"Of course, Nakano-san." She bowed and turned to leave, only to pause at the door. Without looking at him: "I believe _he_ does not hold K-san's actions against him. I know Eiri-san does not. If they do not . . ." Her big eyes lifted and met his squarely. "It seems a great waste of energy for you to do so for them."

A final little bow and she was gone, and he was left standing, more alone than he'd ever felt in his life.

For a moment, he stood staring at the sum of his life: a handful of boxes, a TV . . . and a guitar. Who was he kidding? He didn't want to be a doctor. Had never wanted to be a doctor, even before he'd found music. That had been for his folks. The music . . . he supposed he'd been swept up in Shu's wild fantasies, but only because they'd resonated with his own, unformed as they were at the time. Dreams discovered in the darkness of his room as he lay in bed, his fingers gently caressing the neck of an imaginary guitar. Dreams little Shindou Shuuichi had given form and substance over the years.

Dreams Shuuichi, damned near single-handedly, had made come true. He'd been there, support both musically and psychologically, but any band was only as good as their front man, and Shuuichi had been as good and as dedicated as they came.

And now, Shu was facing a room full of reporters . . . reporters Hiro knew damned well were going to be badgering him about the rumors that Bad Luck had lost its guitarist in a fit of pique, the source of which no one, of course, was talking.

Dammit.

He grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.

✴

Shu's face was plastered all over the monitors of the NG foyer. Hesitant, shy . . . Hiro hadn't seen him this uncertain in years. Not even when Yuki tossed him out on his ear.

Because he'd never been uncertain about his feelings for Yuki. Because Yuki had never betrayed him. Yuki had kicked him out, but in Shu's reasoning, he'd been in Yuki's place on Yuki's tolerance anyway, and that tolerance had simply run out. It had upset the silly goose, but he'd never really questioned the validity of Yuki's actions.

Hiro's desertion . . . that had gotten him where he lived, because he couldn't begin to understand why.

Staring at his handwritten notes—Shu had written those, he could tell by the atrocious handwriting the cameras caught in passing—he thanked the gathered press for coming and announced the upcoming tour, but the instant he paused for breath, the barrage of questions began.

All of them centered on the missing member of the band.

Dammit.

Shu, predictably, tried to make the canned announcement, but Shu could no more lie to the press than he could to Hiro. He began a typical tirade, a torrent of disjointed memories, a flood which likely meant nothing to those in the room, but everything to Hiro. Even Suguru, sitting next to him at the table, could only stare in bewilderment.

Before he thought, Hiro was running, dodging people, taking the steps because the elevator would take too long, running for that room where his best buddy was being torn apart—all because of him.

✴

Hiro skidded to a halt outside the room with the big sign announcing the press conference within. Inside, he heard Shu shout something about needing Hiro to surpass Nittle Grasper.

"Why?" Someone shouted, and Hiro froze, as curious as the assembled reporters to hear Shu's answer. When it came, he grinned. It was so . . . Shuuichi.

"_Because Nittle Grasper doesn't have a guitarist!"_

He chuckled, a chuckle that broke into laughter and poor young Suguru, who still hadn't caught on to Shu's peculiar brand of logic, shouted something about eternal friendship and psychological needs.

But that wasn't Shuuichi's way. Shuuichi's thoughts and feelings were deep, as deep as anyone he'd ever known, but Shuuichi's arguments, well, Shuuichi's arguments were Shuuichi's attempt at logic . . . which had never been his strong suit. Shuuichi went with his gut. Always. _That_ was his strong suit, because his gut was one hell of a smart organ.

Hiro, still panting from his mad dash, snuck into the room just as Shu turned toward the TV camera and said, simply: "So come back, Hiro. Okay?" Big purple eyes slid past the camera and widened as they landed on him. "Hiro?"

All eyes turned to him and he leaned against the lintel, striving for nonchalant, achieving, without doubt panting, disheveled mania.

"Man," he said with a grin, "You convinced me."

Fin

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Thanks for reading!


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